


Fly by Night

by barefootblonde



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Action & Romance, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Forbidden Love, Romance, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-12 09:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16870117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barefootblonde/pseuds/barefootblonde
Summary: Sometimes opportunity can be disguised as necessity, and fearing for her life, Aethelflaed flees Mercia in the dead of the night to the only one man who can help her because he is the only man she trusts. But when opportunity wanes and necessity fades, all that's left are duty, ambition, and long-dormant feelings that can no longer be ignored.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting on here, and I haven't written any fanfiction in forever, but this show and these characters just sucked me right back in. I've got a pretty solid outline and chapter two is all ready to go. I just wanted to note (without giving away any spoilers) that there's some mature content at the end of this chapter that could be triggering for some readers.
> 
> Anyway, I'm excited to hear your thoughts and to officially become part of this fandom. Thank you for reading!

Fly by Night: (adj) a person who is unreliable or untrustworthy, unless they want something; one that seeks to evade responsibilities; one without established reputation or standing; given to making a quick profit usually by shady or irresponsible acts; a person who flees at night to evade the law

Chapter One

 _“Nieht bið wedera ðiestrost, ned bið wyrda.”_  
 _Night is the darkest of weathers, necessity the hardest of fates._ \- Saxon proverb

It was quiet tonight, she thought warily. Quiet was commonplace in her own, much more secure estate in Mercia, but here, in her husband’s home, the quiet was eerie. Disconcerting, even. As her gaze drifted to the horizon, light broke in beautiful streaks, splintering across the sky before disappearing into darkness. She would give anything to try to catch that horizon, to find the freedom it would surely lead to.

Her shoulders slumped a little in defeat.

As long as she lived under her husband’s thumb, there would be no horizon for her. No life, really.

The past four years had yielded nothing but pain and hardship. Even her daughter, who she loved more than she loved herself, was a constant source of pain. A constant reminder of the errors in judgement and sound reasoning she’d made with little thought to consequence.

Aethelflaed swallowed hard, pushing down those treacherous, fruitless thoughts. She could blame herself all she wanted but the outcome would remain the same. She was still here in Mercia, forever tied to a violent, vile man and now, she’d tied a child to him as well.

Time and distance had allowed her hindsight, both a curse and a blessing. While she would never regret the daughter he’d given her, her feelings for Erik, the Dane who, with his brother Sigefrid, had held her captive for months, had been a complicated mess of misguided hope. He’d been kind to her. He’d handled her like glass. He’d looked at her like she hung the moon and the stars. He’d provided a way out of a life she resented and despised, even if it meant abandoning her family. Fleeing with him could have worked - she could have gotten her freedom while absolving Wessex and Mercia of their debt to the Danes without handing over a single piece of silver.

Fleeing with him had also endangered not only the lives of the men risking everything to save her, but the lives of the people of Wessex and Mercia as well. Fleeing with him also meant she would have been tied to him irrevocably until God decided to separate them. Despite his kind words and gentle caresses, she hadn’t truly known the man. She’d dismissed his brute nature because of the opportunity he represented, conveniently choosing not to think about the lives he’d surely taken, the women he must’ve forced himself upon, and the countless villages he’d without a doubt plundered with joyful glee with his terrible brother at his side. She’d trusted him, frankly, because it was the only choice she had.

Even the thought of it sent chills down her spine. Here, at the very least, her daughter had a full belly and a warm place to sleep at night. She feared the same could not be said of the life she would’ve had with Erik, if Aelfwynn would have even survived this long.

She’d known it even when she stood in front of her savior in a makeshift cell, begging him to understand that there was no other way, that she could not go back even if fleeing led to certain death.

He had been right. It would have never worked and she was stupid to think otherwise.

“Lady,” a familiar gruff voice called out to her and she turned to find Beocca standing in the darkness a few paces behind her with his hands folded tightly in front of him. “The food is nearly ready and your husband grows anxious because you have yet to come to the table.”

“Of course,” she pressed a small smile to her face, hoping the priest would not see right through her. Unfortunately for her, the frown on his lips only deepened. “I am sorry, Father. You and your wife are guests in our home and I fear I’ve behaved very rudely.”

He batted a hand in the air and took a step closer. “Pay no mind, Lady. Forgive me for saying this, but your husband is not exactly pleasant company. I was thankful to have a moment of peace.”

A moment of peace. If only she knew what that felt like.

 _But you do_ , a secret voice whispered. _You’ve felt peace with a man before._

She pushed those thoughts aside and laughed briskly. “Yes, well, I can hardly blame you. Should we -”

“Lady,” Beocca ventured closer to her as he spoke, as if he was peering into her very soul. “Forgive me, but are you -”

“Are you going to tell me the true purpose of your visit, Father?” she forged ahead, unwilling to hear the rest of his question. When he said nothing, she refused to back down. “As much as I enjoy your company, and that of your wife, I find it difficult to believe you’ve come here on any business other than my father’s.”

This visit was nothing more than a cleverly disguised welfare check and because the priest had known her her entire life, she did not believe he would start lying to her now. Beocca pushed out a deep sigh and ran a hand over his face.

“Alfred did request that we deliver his gift to your child. That was not a lie.”

“I know,” she nodded.

“But,” he sighed again, glancing at her with weary eyes. “He is also concerned,” the priest paused again, careful with his words. “There have been rumors in Wessex, Lady.”

“What rumors?”

“Rumors that your husband may be going mad. There is talk he has not accepted your child as his own and your father worries you may be in danger of -”

“This is my home, Father,” her brave face was fooling no one and she spread her arms out to the neverending horizon. “There is no place safer for me than here.”

If anything, it was good to know that when all else failed, she could still depend on the love and affection of her father.

His smile was forced and tired. “I will accept that answer for now because we must go to supper.”

With that, he gestured for them to head back toward the main hall.

 

“I DO NOT understand why you’ve prepared such a tasteless meal, wife,” Aethelred complained petulantly, slamming his wine goblet onto the table for good measure.

Thyra glanced up from her meal, her wide, wild eyes shifting anxiously from one end of the table to the other. “I am enjoying the food, Lady. It is not tasteless to me.”

“Nor to me,” Beocca called out from alongside her.

Aethelflaed smiled tensely. She inhaled slowly and exhaled even slower. Sometimes, that was all she needed to do - just breathe. But tonight, calm breathing would not be enough. She’d gone months without having to see her husband before now and the distance had allowed her the benefit of forgetting just how spineless and mean he could be.

But tonight, his meanness bordered on cruelty.

“You forget,” she told her husband, steeling her voice. “I keep a separate estate and so the servants who have prepared our meal tonight are not mine, Lord, but yours.”

She finished her sentence with a sardonic smile that even her mother would have approved of.

Aethelred stared at her from across the table, his mouth opening and closing in various degrees of shock and rage. His youthful, terrible face flushed red just as his grip on his wine goblet turned pale.

“Well,” he bit out. “I suppose I should spend less time humping the servant girls and more time assessing their skills in the kitchen, shouldn’t I?”

“And I suppose I should feel very sorry for those poor servant girls then, shouldn’t I?”

Beocca coughed lightly and shook his head while Thyra looked equal parts amused and disgusted by the display.

“Forgive me, Lord,” Beocca started, obviously treading as lightly as he could. “But I fear -”

“I am sorry for our behavior,” she interjected with a firm smile. It was not lost on her that her husband had now refilled his goblet for a fifth time since they’d all sat down for dinner. Perhaps a distraction would soldier them through the rest of this ordeal.

“Please, tell us news of Wessex. I am sure there is plenty to catch up on - how is Edward? My mother and father?”

“Of course, Lady,” Beocca smiled gratefully and cast a glance at her husband before continuing. “Your brother is well - he flourishes, truly. He is training, just as you did, and there is talk he may be ready to accompany your father on his next campaign. And your mother -”

“But what of Uhtred, hmm?” Aethelred called out, his eyebrows lifting in mockery. “Savior of Wessex and Saxon princesses?”

Aethelflaed stiffened and God help her, her heart stuttered in response. Uhtred, brave and loyal. Commanding yet light of heart, all at the same time. A man to be feared, trusted, and followed. And with his ocean-blue eyes, head of beautiful dark hair, lithe, strong body, and pagan mind, he was just as handsome as he was forbidden. Still, her stupid heart reacted as it always had just at the mere mention of his name.

And, it seemed, her husband had not missed the reaction. Luckily, Beocca chose that moment to answer her horse’s ass of a husband.

“Uhtred, I’m afraid, Lady,” he started a little shakily, “has been banished from Wessex.”

He seemed to let that statement hang in the air and Aethelflaed felt her entire body tense from the inside out. Even her husband was listening now with rapt attention.

“His wife, Gisela, left this world about six months ago birthing a child,” Thyra added, her face pale with renewed grief.

Aethelflaed’s eyes squeezed shut and she swallowed hard. Her heart sank into her stomach as she thought of the children Gisela had left the behind and the husband who surely suffered her loss.

“Ah, then,” Aethelred cocked his head to the side without a hint of sympathy. “Did you hear that, wife? The way is cleared now. How delightful for you.”

Everything that followed seemed to happen simultaneously. Thyra gasped in horror at Aethelred’s words, and Aethelflaed felt herself reflexively squeezing her fingernails into her palms with enough force to draw blood, to keep from leaping to her feet and hurling her wine goblet at his head. Then a flurry of movement from across the table caught the attention of all as Beocca shoved out of his chair and to his feet, jabbing an accusing finger at Aethelred.

“How dare you!” he fumed, shaking his head in barely contained fury. “How dare you disrespect the dead! How dare you disrespect your own wife at this table!”

Aethelred’s blue eyes froze over with a lethal, pointed glare that she knew all too well. Yet, he remained seated leisurely in his chair, calm and despicable as ever. “And how dare you sit at my table and give me orders. This is my house. My land. My army that sits in waiting behind these walls. I believe I am well within my rights to speak however I want about whomever I want, especially a heathen pig like Uhtred Ragnarsson.”

The words tumbled out of her before she could stop them: “He is a better man than you.”

This time, Aethelred did not hesitate to lash out. “He is a Dane and a heathen. Your faithful trust in him is unearned because he serves no one but himself.”

Beocca shook his head furiously, clenching and unclenching both hands into tight fists. “Uhtred has served Alfred nobly for many years and -”

“And you, Priest,” Aethelred tipped his goblet up in a mock toast, “are no longer welcome here.”

“Husband,” Aethelflaed bit out, unable to maintain the cool composure she’d summoned before. “You will not send my father’s priest away from this table. Father Beocca and his wife are here at my father’s bidding, and to bring a gift for our daughter, and you will not -”

“Your daughter,” he snapped back as he leaned forward menacingly. “You mean. A bastard child born from a whore of a wife.”

Stunned into silence, she felt as though he reached across the table and slapped her. He might as well have.

“My lord,” Beocca’s voice shook as it echoed across the chamber. “I cannot believe my eyes and ears. This is unacceptable. The king will hear of this.”

Aethelred sighed, as if more annoyed with his present company than anything. And once again, he reached for the wine jug to fill his goblet.

“I think you have had enough drink tonight,” she told him pointedly. “And we have been terrible hosts to our guests. Surely it will be a wonder if Father Beocca and Thyra ever pay us a visit again.”

Not to mention what the priest would surely report to her father. While she would have to wait until her husband retired for the night, hopefully with a servant girl or three to keep him occupied, she knew she could convince the priest to keep his silence. Thyra might prove more difficult to reason with, but she would speak with them until the sun rose if she had to. Alfred could never know the extent of her pain or of her husband’s very real madness. To tell him would be like setting fire to a dry, grassy field.

“It will be a wonder if I cared whether or not I ever laid eyes on the priest and his heathen wife again,” he called out, easily, leisurely, as though insulting a man of God was commonplace. With a practiced flourish, he reached for his goblet again and drank from it greedily.

“The king will hear of it, Lord,” Beocca repeated barely above a whisper, but his voice was firm and unrelenting.

“The king will not hear of it, Priest,” Aethelred countered lightly, even though his eyes had narrowed like a snake’s. “You will not come onto my land, eat my food, drink my wine, and then return to Alfred spinning wild tales that simply are not true.”

Beocca’s face reddened with murderous fury, but to his credit, he did not move from where he stood. He was rigid and ready to strike at a moment’s notice, but even Aethelred could see that the priest would bend and he would bend because she asked him to.

“Please, Father,” she implored softly. “Sit. Let us finish our meal.”

The priest cast her a mournful glance before meeting his wife’s eyes, who nodded silently, and then he dropped down into his chair with a heavy sigh.

Without missing a beat, Aethelred gleefully interrupted this precious moment of quiet. “I am bored with this meal and with this company. I believe I shall retire now,” he told them as he rose to his feet, goblet still clutched in his hand, and he wobbled a little unsteadily before shooting Aethelflaed a sharp glare. “Do not wait up for me, my dear.”

With that, he emptied the contents of his wine goblet in one long gulp and then slammed it back down onto the table, nearly startling Aethelflaed and Thyra out of their seats.

Beocca’s dark eyes followed Aethelred until he was safely out of sight before turning his attention to Aethelflaed. The pity in his gaze nearly did her in. She could not bear this - the sympathetic looks and the well-intentioned defense from both Beocca and Thyra. At this rate, she prayed she would never have visitors in Mercia again. If this was what she would have to endure, then she was better off in her own estate, where she at least had the advantage of distance and servants she could trust.

“My lady, this is cannot stand,” Beocca told her quietly, but firmly, as if he were approaching a wild, beaten animal in a cage. In some respects, she supposed that was exactly what she was.

“You and your child must return with us to Winchester where you will be safe. And then we will tell your father -”

“We will tell him nothing,” she whispered and her heart stuttered on every word. “He must know nothing.”

Beocca’s face contorted in an unsettling combination of confusion, grief, and pity. He opened his mouth to speak but, Thyra, who had stealthily rounded the corner of the table to grip Aethelflaed’s hand in hers, beat him to it.

“I fear your husband has a mind to harm you, milady,” Thya’s reedy, otherworldly voice called out to her, imploring her to listen.

Before she could speak, Beocca shook his head furiously and held up a hand. “I understand why you would want this kept quiet. The reasons are vast, and I know they start with your desire to see Alfred fully supported by the army of Mercia. I understand - I truly do. And your intentions are noble and brave, Lady, but they are entirely foolish.”

Her lips parted to respond, to assert that there was no other option, that nothing could be done, and instead, all she could say was: “Please...I want to hear what has happened to Uhtred. He is banished?”

The priest and his wife exchanged an apprehensive glance. She could not be more transparent - she knew that. But she needed the distraction, she needed to deflect, and she needed to know that Uhtred was alright.

Beocca sighed and ran a hand over his face as Thyra settled back down into a nearby chair. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if saying a silent prayer, and shook his head.

“Yes, Lady, he is banished,” Beocca continued. “When Gisela passed, Uhtred was fighting for your father against a Danish invasion at Awelton. She was buried in a Christian grave several days before he returned and he unearthed her body, desecrating holy ground, and then burned her as is pagan tradition.”

A shaky hand lifted to her mouth, not because she was shocked by Uhtred’s actions, but because she was horrified at the sheer tragedy of it all. In her mind’s eye, she could see him, wracked with grief, digging and digging until he found his wife’s dead body. She could not imagine what that must have felt like, how devastating it must have been to see her wrapped in burial shrouds for all eternity.

The rest of the story, though, was its own nightmare of a bedtime story. As Beocca told it, Alfred learned of the desecration and brought Uhtred to him to negotiate an understanding. The way may well have been paved until Brother Godwin viciously taunted Uhtred, calling Gisela a whore and other unspeakable things. While Aethelflaed could not argue against Uhtred’s impulsive reaction, she was sure he couldn’t have anticipated what would follow. How a mere slap could kill a man. How one more request from a king to his swordsman was one request too many. How it must’ve all gone terribly wrong.

Even as she shuddered to imagine Uhtred holding a knife to her father’s throat, she understood the desperation he had been driven to. Like her, he had had no choice. And she believed, to the depths of her soul, that Uhtred was incapable of truly harming her father.

“Where has he gone?” Aethelflaed whispered.

Thrya smiled sadly. “There are rumors he is with our brother, Ragnar, and the Danes in Dunholm, and I believe those rumors to be true.”

She nodded slowly as she processed all of this new information. “And his children?”

“They are with the nun, Hild, in Coccham. Well-cared for, I am sure of it,” Beocca assured her and for the first time in too long, she felt herself exhale with relief.

It was a shame that relief could not last longer.

“Lady,” Beocca started again. “Do not think I will forget what I have seen and heard here tonight. While I understand your intent, I am sure the king can find a solution that benefits both you and the people of Wessex and Mercia. There must be no forgiveness for the way he treats you,” he paused at that and took a deep breath. “Does he beat you, Lady?”

Her inhaled sharply as her mind flashed to the first time she had been asked that question and her eyes squeezed shut in response.

_“Does he beat you, Lady?”_

_She couldn’t answer him if she tried, and she took a small step backward when he advanced on her ever so slightly, his broad shoulders taut with tension and his beautiful face twisted in disbelieving fury._

_“Does he force himself on you, Lady?”_

_Again, she couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t stomach saying them out loud, even inside the prison cell that Sigefrid and the brutes he called his men had locked her in. And again, she didn’t need to answer. The way his ocean-blue eyes sharpened with recognition and murder told her he already knew._

_“He shall not live to see another day, Lady.”_

And again, she didn’t have to answer. The priest and his wife seemed to already know what she could not find the words to say. But before they could argue, she rose from her chair and held her chin high.

“I apologize, but I am tired and I should like to retire to bed. I hope you will do the same and if we must, we can talk of these things further in the morning.”

That was enough to appease them, at least for now, and so she left Beocca and Thyra at the table, sympathetic and pitying as ever, and hoped she could find some rest tonight.

As always, fate had other plans.

 

SPENDING A NIGHT in an unfamiliar bed did not serve her well. She wanted nothing more than to find rest, even if it was only for an hour or two, but it would not come. Being in her husband’s home had never given her comfort and it was clear tonight would be no different.

Perhaps it was just as well. This was not a place she wanted to find comfort in anyway. For as long as she lived, she would never spend another moment in this place if it could be helped. The next time Mercia had guests, she decided, she would receive them in her own estate, far from the drunken, vicious grasp of her husband or she would not receive them at all.

She would survive, she decided, by maintaining a careful distance and a watchful eye. She would no longer subject herself to her husband’s presence unless the pretense was necessary in Winchester, in front of her father, and soon, she feared, in front of her brother. The whispers of Alfred’s declining health persisted and could no longer by ignored, and armed with that truth, she was even more determined to leave her father undisturbed with matters that could not be changed.

She could not allow herself to consider any other choices because there were none.

A slow creak at her door echoed across the room and her eyes flew open. Before she could reach for the dagger she’d hidden under the bed, a pair of hands snaked through her hair and yanked her head back. There was no time to scream because a hand clamped over her mouth and hot breath was at her ear.

“You have humiliated me, wife,” Aethelred spat the word as though it were a curse and then, inexplicably, he loosened his grip on her hair and slid the hand over her mouth down to her throat, squeezing just enough to make her eyes burn with tears.

“I am your lord and husband,” he murmured in her ear. “And every day, you disrespect and humiliate me.”

She knew there would be consequences. She knew he would retaliate, and viciously. And yet, her chin tilted high, even as a tear slipped down her cheek. “The only person responsible for your humiliation is you, my lord.”

He hesitated, the drunken stupor surely delaying the inevitable reaction. A split second later, she flew through the air, landing squarely on her left knee with a sick thud. The scream of pain died on her lips because once again, he yanked her up by her hair and then slapped her across the face.

Stumbling backwards, her hand flew up to her stinging face. Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks and her husband could only chuckle mirthlessly as he struck her once again, this time with a clenched fist instead of an open palm. The blow had her scrambling back against the wall, stunned with shock and flashes of terror.

But when he laughed mercilessly again, when he chose to spit in her face, something dark and long-hidden unraveled within her, spooling down from her furiously beating heart all the way down to her toes. And before she had a moment’s pause, her own open palm flew out to strike him back.

Aethelred reared back, neither prepared nor clear-headed enough to react any other way. He stared at her, mouth agape as his lips trembled with fury. And then he lunged at her with both hands reaching for her throat. The second his fingers touched her skin, he seemed to abruptly change course, choosing to strike her with his fist once more before lowering his blows to her stomach.

She dropped to her knees from the impact, and in her blurred, spotty vision, she could not find where she’d hidden her dagger, could not grasp hold of anything that could shield her. She could only focus on the sharp, silvery taste of blood in her mouth and the feeling that her head had been split into two.

“You have earned this, wife,” Aethelred sneered at her, panting like a wild dog. “If I must break you, then so be it.”

Even as he advanced, her vision sharpened just enough to register the next blow seconds before it landed. Stars erupted, dancing around the space above her as she felt hands drag her body down to the ground. Those same hands clawed at her nightclothes, furiously yanking them up before a cold hand clamped around her mouth to keep her from screaming.

Consciousness passed in and out until finally, it was better to shut down her mind because her body had already given out on her. That way, she did not feel his invasion of her body. She did not feel the hopelessness threatening to consume her. She did not feel pain.

She did not feel anything at all.

The minutes seemed like hours, and every hour that passed was more excruciating than the last. Even though her mind had separated itself from her body, some secret part of her felt like it would never end. That her body would remain numb and listless, trapped in this prison as he reached inside her soul and tore it apart.

Everything had become useless. Her body simply wasn’t her body anymore. Her hands and arms and legs and every other part no longer felt like her own. To be a stranger in her own body, a foreigner in a dangerous land, made her stomach roll and churn. All she could do was wait.

Finally, her husband thrust against her one more time, grunting and sweating like the pig he was, and then he collapsed on top of her, trapping her on the floor. She waited, frozen underneath him, terrified to move. If she tried to push him away now, what would happen then? Would she even have the strength?

But when a low snore brushed against her neck, renewed strength flared within her. She squeezed her eyes shut to summon that growing reserve of strength and then pushed against her husband’s heavy, sleeping body.

Nothing but survival pushed her forward. It shoved her husband away from her, yanked her up to her feet, and judging by the deep sleep Aethelred had fallen into, told her she had a few precious moments of time. They wouldn’t be long, but those moments needed to be seized before it was too late.

The plan formed swiftly and she moved just as swiftly with it. After taking one of those precious few moments to get dressed and throw what little belongings she could into a satchel, she found herself shaking awake the trusted servants she’d brought with her from Saltwic. They would not disobey her and they would follow her instructions without hesitation or delay.

Then before she could fully comprehend what she was doing, she kissed her daughter goodbye and watched her ride away into the black night with two of her servants, and then rushed to the quarters where the priest and his wife were staying.

She was quickly running out of time. But they would listen because they knew she could not stay. And they would take her to the only man who could truly help her.


	2. Chapter Two

_“Alle ville herrer vǽre, ingen ville sǽkken bǽrre.”_

_There are too many chiefs and not enough Indians - Danish proverb_

* * *

 As grateful as he was that his brother, and his brother’s lover for that matter, had welcomed him back into the fold with open arms, Uhtred was quickly growing weary of this discussion. With the entire population of Dunholm seemingly packed inside the great hall, it was more suffocating than productive. The ale in their bellies lit a greater fire than the one burning at the center of their gathering - clearly the breeding ground for a rational plan of action.

And a blind man could see that this whole gathering was really just a thinly disguised pissing contest.

He sighed, casting a blank glance at Finan, who was seated several paces behind him with the rest of his men. Finan, ever reliable, lifted his eyes to the ceiling with a slight shake of his head. At least he wasn’t the only one feeling like this entire gathering was a fool’s errand. From the moment Bloodhair and Haestan had arrived in Dunholm less than a week ago, with the eternal idiot Aethelwold in tow, he’d sensed a shift in his brother and in Brida was well.

Ragnar had always walked with his head held high, proud and confident, and ready to charge into war with little more than an axe at his side. Brida was typically a little more sensible in that she preferred to pause, at least long enough to work through a sound strategy, before lunging in sword first. But with Bloodhair and Haestan’s presence in their great hall, they itched with a bloodthirst that was difficult to set aside. 

Uhtred was tired. Nearly too tired to bear the weight of where this discussion would surely lead. Heavy with regret and grief. Weary of the witch Brida kept captive in the stables. Terrified of the witch Brida kept captive in the stables. What he truly needed was not to sit in this hall, listening to aimless and faithless men argue about which Saxon fortress to claim first, but a full night of uninterrupted sleep.

He’d been at Dunholm for several months now and had only recently begun to feel wholly himself. The battle wounds and illness he’d barely survived through the journey from Winchester to Dunholm had lingered far longer than he was willing to admit, and even though they said nothing, his men had sensed it too.

And above all, he missed his children and he missed their mother.

“We will take every village and every hall,” Bloodhair announced, preening around the center of their gathering like the horse’s ass he was. “We will leave nothing but fire in our wake!”

He lifted both arms above his head in a victory he had not yet earned and still, the Danes roared, with Ragnar and Brida among the loudest voices in the entire hall. The sight of it was just as unsettling as the sound.

Unwilling to be outdone by his former adversary and surely one-time ally, Haestan leapt to his feet and all but shoved Bloodhair aside.

“We shall ride to Mercia and Wessex and seize it all!”

More shouts erupted through the hall as Haestan lowered his gaze pointedly to where Uhtred still sat.

“And then I shall pluck the lady Athelflaed from her perch and seize her as well and when I've finished riding her, every man here shall have his turn!” He grabbed his groin and shook it, thrusting violently into the air as the crowd around him roared louder, but Haestan’s spiteful gaze never left its target.

Uhtred froze at the mention of that name. It was not a name to be spoken in a place like this, and by a man who wanted nothing more than to make her suffer just because he could. One comment from a pig like Haestan he could stand. It was the laughing and the jeering that nearly did him in. The way the entire hall erupted at the very suggestion of shaming and humiliating the lady. As if she hadn’t been shamed and humiliated enough.

But what was far worse was the way Ragnar and Brida joined in, cheering and laughing just as loudly as the rest of them.

And even though every instinct inside him screamed to react, he kept it coiled for now. There would be a time and a place to wipe the smirk from Haestan’s face once and for all, but it could not happen as long as Haestan remained allied with his brother. He was sure he would not have to wait too long.

A familiar accent managed to rise above the catcalls and whistling  as he called out, “The bounty must be split equally amongst us. Trust me, there is much to be had and if we do not agree on the terms now, we will -”

Ragnar waved him off as he would a fly. “We shall talk of bounty when there is bounty to be had.”

Aethelwold’s face flushed red with an impulsive, haughty anger that Uhtred recognized all too well. “Mercia alone has more wealth than Dunholm and Hedeby combined.”

Once again, Uhtred’s pulse leapt and stuttered in his veins. He could not be sure if this continued discussion of Mercia was meant to antagonize him or if Aethelwold was truly so dense that he would willfully insert himself into matters that had nothing to do with him.

Ragnar, however, didn’t hide his intrigue. “And you’ve seen this wealth?”

“Yes,” Aethelwold nodded eagerly.  “Aethelred himself lives in luxury inside Aegelsburg’s walls. I cannot speak to the estate of Lady Aethelflaed in Saltwic, but if it is anything like her husband’s, it must surely be taken as well.”

Uhtred inhaled purposefully, releasing it just as slowly to maintain some pretense of composure. Even if the turd wasn’t trying to goad him, he was still succeeding.

“You do not speak of rumor?” Bloodhair pressed him, stepping toward him with a menace that commanded all eyes on him. “You’ve seen it with your own eyes?”

Aethelwold, seeing an opportunity as plain as the nose on his face, grinned. “Yes, Lord. I have. I was there just a few days before coming to Dunholm.”

This time, however, Uhtred was unable to mask his reaction. His head snapped to the right, levelling a hard glare at the man who’d been nothing but a thorn in his side since the day they met. What had Aethelwold been doing in Aegelsburg just days before joining up with the Danes? What other purpose could a visit like that serve but to incite chaos and treachery?

And like the fool he was, Aethelwold sneered.

It seemed as though he was the only one in the room, save for his men, that heard Aethelwold with a rational mind. They only thought of silver and how they could spend it. Such thoughts would only lead to quick ruin and certain death and Uhtred was not yet ready to knock at the gates of Valhalla.

 “It will never work,” Uhtred threw out casually, cocking his head to the side in thought. He could not hide his satisfaction when the sniveling grin slipped from Aethelwold’s face.

Ragnar stilled from across the gathering fire, but he did not speak. Instead, Bloodhair charged on, ready to rage his way through any and every obstacle in his path.

“And why is that?” he demanded.

Uhtred shrugged. “Because once we have taken our plunder, we will all turn on each other. There are too many men in this hall who would like to be leader and not enough who trust each other. There can only be one leader, not three.”

“Or four,” Aethelwold seethed.

Uhtred lifted an eyebrow. “Or five, it would seem.”

His gaze dropped to Ragnar, who still had not moved from his spot next to Brida. 

“It must be Ragnar who leads,” Uhtred nodded to him.

“And why is that, Dane-slayer?” Haestan spat out, subtly brushing his fingertips against the dagger at his hip.

He just huffed out a laugh. As if that would threaten him.

“Because Ragnar is the only one each of us can trust completely,” Uhtred explained as though he were speaking to a child. “That is the only way this stands a fighting chance of actually working.”

Rumbling echoed in the great hall as low murmurs of agreement spread through the room. At least the majority seemed to understand that the path to victory could not be paved by three would-be chieftains, each one working toward their own individual goal. And it was not familial bias that led Uhtred to name Ragnar as leader.

Ragnar was born to lead. He inspired the loyalty and faith of all those around him. People needed a man to follow and they needed to follow a man with ambitions worthy of their lives. Wealth and bounty may very well be worthy enough for some of the Danes here, but for Uhtred, for his men, for Brida, the fight needed to be worthy too.

Even Bloodhair and Haestan stalled in their pursuit. They knew Ragnar was the best choice, no matter how much they despised that truth.

Uhtred knew he would follow his brother to the ends of the earth and back, but when the discussion shifted to unseating Alfred, his heart plummeted into his stomach. As Ragnar outlined a good, sound plan of action that could actually work, Uhtred remained silent. There were times when Ragnar paused, looking to his brother for reassurance, for confidence, and each time, Uhtred nodded, but he could not speak.

Despite everything Alfred had done to him, despite all suffering he had caused him, Uhtred still could not bring himself to participate in his downfall. Wasn’t it enough that he was finally reunited with his brother and with Brida? Why did the gods curse him this way?

 _The witch,_ a voice whispered to him. _She is the cause of all your misfortune._

Yes, it was the witch who was responsible. The witch who’d bound his destiny so tightly with her black magic.

It was those dark thoughts that weighed on him as his brother once again declared him a Dane. He repeated it, not necessarily because he believed it, but because he wanted it to be true. He wanted to forget the way his fate was irrevocably tied to Alfred’s. He wanted to forget the oaths he’d sworn, the promises he’d made because it was just easier that way.

Declaring himself a Dane would not make him forget and he knew it.

Perhaps that was why he found himself seeking out the turd. He needed answers and he hadn’t needed to look very hard to find them. Aethelwold sat leisurely inside the nearest alehouse with one hand clutching a cup as the other awkwardly slid up the skirts of the woman sitting on his lap.

Uhtred lifted his eyes to the ceiling and blew out a deep breath. The turd would never learn and he would never change. And so he sank down on the stool next to him under the guise of false pretenses.

“Ah, my lord,” Aethelwold lifted his cup to him in drunken greeting. “Good to see you up and about. I was told you were unwell for quite some time.”

Uhtred did not give him an inch. Instead, a light grin touched his lips as he reached for his own cup of ale. “And I see you are as stupid as ever.”

As the jovial grin slipped from his face, Aethelwold shoved the woman off his lap and leaned in menacingly, effectively proving Uhtred’s observation correct. Uhtred smirked at him and took a long pull from his cup, taunting the pig’s ass without needing to say a word.

“You cannot disrespect me here,” Aethelwold murmured, his eyes narrowing into dark slits. “I am allied with Bloodhair and Haestan now and they are not particularly fond of you, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, slayer of Danes. I am sure they would not need much reason to fight you.”

Uhtred huffed out an amused laugh, but his eyes never left the sorry excuse for a man sitting to his left. “Bloodhair and Haestan would never fight anyone over you and if that is what you believe,” he shook his head and lifted his cup in a mock-toast, “then you are even stupider than I thought.”

“Do not call me -”

He leaned in closer, forcing Aethelwold to instinctively retreat like the coward he was. “What are you playing at?”

Aethelwold lifted his chin in defiance. “I am playing no game.”

“You are,” Uhtred prodded. “Joining up with the Danes? It is a game and you will not win.”

“Trust me, I do not see it as a game. It is an opportunity.”

Uhtred cocked an eyebrow and chuckled. “Ah. So you want to claim Alfred’s throne for your own then?”

Rage flashed across Aethelwold’s sneering face. “I am going to claim what has always been mine. I would think you of all people would understand.”

“Your place is in an alehouse in Wessex with a whore in your lap. I suggest you go there before you find a sword through your throat.”

Even that not-so-subtle threat was enough to bring the dog to heel.

“My place is on the throne of Wessex with a crown about my head,” Aethelwold bit out and slammed his cup down onto the table. “Aligning myself with the Danes will only bring about Alfred’s downfall sooner.”

“And what of your visit to Aegelsburg then, hmm? What purpose could that visit serve if not to plot mischief?”

Aethelwold’s lips spread in a knowing grin. “Not to fret, Lord Uhtred. The lady was not there. I am told she prefers her own company over her husband’s.”

 _Good,_ Uhtred thought, _better she keep as much distance as possible between her and the bastard who calls himself her husband._

“I was purely paying my good friend, Lord Aethelred, a visit before joining my allies in the North. And,” Aethelwold allowed slyly, “of course, while I was there, I encouraged my good friend to consider his own alliances and his own ambitions after I become king of Wessex.”

He shook his head and blew out a deep breath. “Of course you did.”

Aethelwold seized on the moment Uhtred took another drink from his cup and leaned in. “This is not a game to me, Uhtred. I will reclaim what is mine and I do not care if you get in my way.”

Uhtred downed the rest of his cup’s contents, set it on the table with a heavy thud, and pushed to his feet. “Your stupidity never ceases to amaze me.”

He did not wait to hear the turd’s cocksure response. There was a bed waiting for him, although he suspected he would be hard-pressed find any rest tonight.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING found Uhtred bleary-eyed and just as exhausted as he was the day before. Rest had only found him for a few precious hours at a time and he’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, unsettled by the events of the day before. Not even morning ale and a meal with his men could cure the churning in his stomach.

And, as Finan, Osferth, and Sihtric shared a glance, it seemed his day was about to get worse before it even really began. He took a long gulp from his cup, mentally preparing himself for whatever was to come, and the air hung thick around them before Finan finally spoke.

“My lord,” he started hesitantly, his Irish brogue catching on each syllable. He glanced at Sihtric, who nodded, and then pressed on. “I came here to rest and eat and drink and perhaps find a woman, not necessarily in that order.”

Uhtred blew out a breath with a nod, which only served to spurn Finan on.

“None of us came here to join in a battle against Alfred and Wessex. Those are our people, our homes, our families -”

“My wife and child are in Wessex, Lord,” Sihtric cut in sharply. “I cannot fight against Wessex.”

Uhtred nodded wearily and ran a hand over his face. He had anticipated this - it was a wonder they had not said something sooner. Their logic was sound and reasonable and by gods, he could not blame them. They had given him nearly everything they had for years, fighting for Alfred and his causes faithfully at his side. How could he ask them to flip their loyalties this way? How could he expect them to follow him blindly into what would surely be the biggest mistake of his life?

At the end of the day, he knew that if he pressed the matter, if he required it, they would follow. But they would not be willing, their hearts and minds would not be in it, and they would most likely lose their lives because of it.

Perhaps he needed to rethink his own declarations as well.

“If we are to fight, Lord,” Finan continued, his voice nearly shaking with resolve. “Let it be for a cause we can _fight_ for. Let it be for a cause we can be proud to _die_ for.”

“Yes,” Osferth’s careful, timid voice called out from across the table. “All this talk of raiding against Alfred...it does not feel right, Lord Uhtred. And I do not much care for Bloodhair and Haelstan. If I am to die in battle, I do not want it to be next to one of them.”

He nodded once more but all words had left him. How was one supposed to respond to this anyway? It was only fair that they give him a few minutes to digest both their dissent and his breakfast.

“Give me a moment,” he gestured to the half-eaten meal in front of him, noting the apprehension creeping into Finan’s eyes.

Perhaps his mind was already made up. Perhaps stalling, dragging this out, was only to soothe his aching conscious. If he acted as though he was torn, it would be easier to convince himself that was true. If Ragnar or Brida, _gods Brida -_ if they knew how easily he could be convinced to leave them, if he’d be lucky if all he received was their disgust and not a sword through his throat.

And maybe that alone was why he and his men would be better off leaving Dunholm sooner rather than later, although he had no idea where they were supposed to go from here. What purpose they could possibly serve. He could not see any of them resting easy for months, let alone years, without the call of the battlefield.

And maybe that was why his heart leapt into his throat at the sight of Father Beocca and his sister, Thyra, ride through the gates of Dunholm.

“Is that my sister?” Ragnar exclaimed, pushing through the gathering crowd and yanking his sister right from her horse and into his waiting arms. “Oh, look at you. You are so beautiful.”

Thyra pushed back at him playfully with a wide grin and Uhtred could not help but smile sadly at the display. There was a time when he used to feel as though he belonged alongside them - Ragnar, Brida, even Thyra, who was still so rooted in her Danish heritage, regardless of her marriage. Now, though, he felt like he was on the outside looking in.

Still, he stepped forward to embrace his sister and kiss her cheek. “Hello, Thyra. It is good to see you.”

“And it is good to see you,” she told him softly. “My brother.”

Something in Thyra’s eyes unnerved him. While they held their usual, slightly unnatural gleam, there was a sadness in them, coupled with what seemed like relief to see him. It confounded him, even in his happiness to see her.

So he turned his attention to her husband, who had already slid off his horse to greet him. “Father Beocca. It is good to see you as well.”

They embraced for a moment, and Uhtred felt it again - the heaviness he’d seen in Thyra’s eyes, he felt in the priest’s embrace. Something had happened. Something, other than the reason they were about to give, had brought them here.

“What brings you here?” Ragnar called out from behind him, with an arm slung around Brida’s shoulders.

Beocca shrugged a little too easily. “My wife wished to visit one brother while making sure the other was still alive.”

At Ragnar’s pointed glance, Thyra nodded emphatically with a shy grin.

“It is true,” she affirmed, looking from brother to the other. “I wished to see both of you - I’ve missed you so.”

That seemed good enough for Ragnar, but it was not quite enough to convince Uhtred.

“Come now,” Ragnar gestured with his head toward the great hall and tucked his sister in closer. “Let us get you some food and some drink. We have much to catch up on.”

Uhtred watched them as they passed, with Brida right behind them, and was about to join them when he felt a hand on his arm. The priest stood a few paces to his left with a solemn expression in his dark eyes.

“My lord,” he murmured lowly. “Perhaps there is a place where we can go to talk?”

It wasn’t a question as much as it was a request, and Uhtred had learned long ago that it was best not to keep the priest waiting too long. Careful to make sure this shift in mood had gone unnoticed, Uhtred led the priest back to his breakfast table, where his men still sat. At a quick gesture of his head, they stood, gathered what was left of their meals and their drinks, and left them to the table. Beocca did not waste any time and sank down onto the bench.

The air was heavy between them, thick with anticipation because Uhtred knew that whatever it was the priest was about to say - it was not good.

“Father,” Uhtred pressed, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced around to make sure no one was listening or watching their exchange and only found his men standing a respectful, but purposeful distance away.

The priest nodded with a brief smile that faded just as quickly as it flashed across his face. “I am here for the Lady Athelflaed.”

All of the air seemed to leave his lungs at once. Some secret part of him had known this, had feared hearing the words for reasons he could not quite comprehend. Now, all he could do was sit here at this table and let whatever news the priest was about to bring crash into him.

“What about her?”

With a nod, the priest leaned forward, clearly sensing that Uhtred would hang onto every word he said. “She fears her husband will kill her, and her child as well, and I fear she may very well be correct.”

Uhtred squeezed his eyes shut as the memory flooded over him.

_“Lord Uhtred,” her once-solemn face seemed to light up at the sight of him. “You have risked everything because you came when I called you. I cannot thank you enough.”_

_He crossed his arms over his chest, careful to keep the distance between them. “I only wish he had survived, Lady.”_

_A sad smile lifted her lips, then faded. They stood in silence for a few moments, and Uhtred could no longer set aside what he knew to be true, what he knew of her true reason for wanting to flee with Erik as far as he could take her._

_"Lady,” he began slowly, unsure how to tread on these unfamiliar grounds. “Surely, there must be some way to -”_

_Her sharp, nearly shaking voice cut him off. “There is nothing that can be done. I am to return to Mercia,” she glanced down at her hands as her bottom lip began to tremble. “And, I fear I may have only made my circumstances worse.”_

He had not known which new piece of knowledge was worse: that she was with child or that she feared for her life, and now, the life of her unborn child as well. Because he could not bring himself to focus on the former, his attention shifted firmly to the latter. And because he could not deny her - he had never really been able to deny her anything - he’d sworn yet another oath. It was the only oath he’d ever given freely and it seemed the priest was here to collect on the lady’s behalf.

The priest flashed him an understanding smile and folded his hands tightly together at the table as he leaned in. “I can only tell you what I have seen. Although what I have seen, and what Thyra has seen, is bad enough, I fear what has happened behind closed doors is far worse.”

He paused at that and swallowed hard, as if the memory alone was worth a lifetime of nightmares. Uhtred nodded wordlessly for him to continue because his voice had left him.

“Thyra and I were to visit Mercia at the behest of Alfred. There were rumors whispered in Winchester that his daughter’s husband was mad and that he spent his days drunk in Aegelsburg. Alfred was concerned, and rightfully so. When we arrived, it was clear that something was not quite right and then at supper, Lord Aethelred proceeded to drink his weight in wine and insult his wife in front of us at his every opportunity. Some of the things he said...they are unspeakable, Lord, and I will not repeat them here. I even threatened to take what I’d heard back to Alfred, but Lord Aethelred was not moved.”

The priest ran a hand over his bald head and squeezed his eyes shut at the memory. “He called the lady a whore and the child a bastard right in front of us. He did not even care we had heard it.”

Uhtred let out a slow, controlled breath. His hands clenched into tight fists underneath the table and itched for his sword. And yet, the priest was not finished.

“The lady came to us in the middle of the night and shook us from our sleep. Even in the darkness…” he trailed off for a moment, swallowed tightly, and then pressed on. “Even in the darkness, her injuries could not be missed. She had been beaten, Lord. Severely. And viciously.”

He felt as though he had been socked in the stomach. Of all the things he had expected the priest to say, it was not this. Something so unimaginable. So abhorrent and despicable. For the life of him, he could not bring himself to picture her face - the bruising, the devastation, the _blood_ \- and it was all he could do to keep himself from leaping from this table, finding the first horse he could get his hands on, riding into Aegelsburg, and driving his sword right into the bastard’s face.

“My lord,” Beocca’s quiet voice called out to him. “I do not know for certain - the lady would not say when Thyra asked, but...I believe he beat her and then forced himself on her. The look in her eye...I’ve seen that same look in Thyra. It was wild and desperate and petrified...we could not refuse her.”

It was a wonder his stomach did not empty itself all over this table. He was going to be sick, he was sure of it. He was going to put his fist through the nearest beam, he was sure of it. He was going to kill her husband, he was sure of it.

“She asked us to bring her to you because you are the only man she can truly trust.”

At that, his senses shook back to life and his gaze shot up to the priest. “She is here?”

“She is,” Father Beocca confirmed with a sad nod. “We left her a safe distance away - she’s made camp there with several of her men.”

“And the child?”

“She sent the child to a nunnery in Saltwic with two her of servants. She believed her husband would not suspect she’d separate herself from her child. He will be searching for the lady herself, really, and she believed the child was safer apart from her than beside her, and I fear she may be correct.”

In some respects, the lady was far safer in Mercia than she was in Dunholm, and surely she had to have known that. But if she was that desperate, that terrified, that harmed, there could be no doubt what the priest was saying was true.

Sensing his thoughts, the priest leaned in yet again. “I tried to convince her to go to Alfred but she would hear none of it. And, in the moment, it was more important to get her away from her husband than anything else. There was no time to think of a less foolhardy plan.”

He couldn’t blame him - couldn’t blame any of them. In the heat of the moment, the sheer panic of it, he could not imagine he would have done much different. However, sitting here in Dunholm, he had knowledge they did not.

“She cannot stay - at least not for long,” Uhtred murmured under his breath. “Haestan is here and he has not forgotten her.”

The priest’s eyes squeezed shut as his head dropped into hands. “Oh...this is...I fear I have made a terrible mistake. I never should have listened to the lady - I should’ve begged her, pleaded with her -”

“And she still would not have listened,” he reassured the priest. “I know the lady just as well as you do. She could never have been persuaded.”

With a tight nod, the priest blew out a deep sigh and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “I believe I speak for the lady as well when I say I did not bring her to Dunholm to cause you trouble, Lord.”

“I know.”

The priest shook his head with a mirthless laugh. “I have done what was asked of me. I do not know what else to do.”

Uhtred nodded solemnly and inhaled deeply, his hands clenching underneath the table. “I know.”

“What will you do, Lord?”

He stared at a crack in the table for a moment, his thoughts tangled and tossed in the scatter. “How much distance sits between her and Dunholm?”

“A little less than half a day’s ride.”

Uhtred nodded, satisfied with that knowledge. A safe distance away, that was for sure. At least for now. “I need a moment. Once I’ve decided what to do, I will find you and send you to give her my message.”

For a moment, Father Beocca shot forward, leaning into his elbows with concern and disbelief written on his face. “My Lord, you cannot refuse her. She said you have sworn an oath. She asked me to bring her to you because she said you are the only man she can truly trust. You cannot abandon her now.”

Uhtred’s eyes fell to his clenched hands resting on his lap underneath the table. It pained him that the priest would think so little of him, would think him capable of disavowing his word and his loyalty. There was never a question of whether he would help her. Even if he had not given an oath, he knew he would’ve been riding out to meet her anyway.

The question was a matter of how and when.

“Do not worry, Father,” he told the priest firmly, feeling the promise of every word surge through him. “The lady need not worry either.”

Destiny, maybe that’s what this was. Best to look it in the eye.


End file.
